


Wolf Trap

by ailichi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (i'm just erring on the side of caution ... it's a very oblique mention), Choking, Episode: s01e01 Apéritif, Episode: s01e02 Amuse-Bouche, First Dates, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 01, M/M, Rough Kissing, necrophilia mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29564466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailichi/pseuds/ailichi
Summary: Between the events of the first and second episode, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are still figuring out the boundaries of their relationship - Will might feel a bit sick; Hannibal might feel reluctant to lower himself to another human's level. They don't even know who the other is - it doesn't mean that they don't want each other. Abigail is lying in a dark and clean room, many miles away from Wolf Trap, Virginia. She's not awake, she's not asleep, she's more dead than alive, and she needs to be pulled screaming back into the world.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Wolf Trap

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a self-indulgent little warm-up exercise; maybe it's not about Hannibal and Will at all, but about how they saved the life of a strange girl, even against her will. 
> 
> I don't want to give too much away and I don't want to overstate the case, but PLEASE BE AWARE that they're not having, you know, Happy Intimate Relations, and Abigail is quite 'present' (mentally) on their little date night, including when they have sex. I don't think there's any kind of warning tag for it, because it's not, like, so very terribly Bad. But it might not be a lot of people's cup of tea, so be warned! <3 <3 <3
> 
> I recommend listening to [Tenebre](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F6JmfugpEhM&ab_channel=ANTI-Records) by Bryce Dessner while reading this.

_Elk Neck State Park, Maryland_

Will Graham is having a bad week - in fact, he’s having a bad month. Everything has gone nauseatingly, dizzyingly wrong in his life, and he barely feels conscious enough to even think about how he might stop this deranging descent into insanity.

Right now, however, he is needed. Jack Crawford wants to borrow his mind.

He is standing at the scene of a crime. He feels like he’s early - the forensics team are still carrying out the real work of the investigation. The ground is impossibly soft and loamy beneath his feet, and he can feel himself sinking into it as though the earth were completely insubstantial. He knows that underneath him, the soil is criss-crossed with a myriad of vanishingly small connections, tiny hyphal threads knitting themselves together and tying the whole forest up in one vast network of biological empathy. 

Jack is already over at the perimeter of a low plastic ribbon, giving directions, telling people what they need to look at first. Over his shoulder, Will can see Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller, poking at one of the hands that hover in the sub-canopy of ferns, both inappropriately gleeful. Jimmy is miming a very foppish parody of the hands’ gesture and Z is pretending to be annoyed at him. Jack shoots them a warning glance that they fail to notice before walking back to Will.

“Local police found tyre-tracks on a hidden service road,” he begins. 

And then it’s into the usual, comforting, dialect of killing. How long did they live after this? What fungus works best if you’re looking for a creature that eats distinguishing characteristics for breakfast? Restraints, and lack of thereof; nearby animal traps, isolated settings. Beverley jokes with Jimmy about the unexpected perks of his job (can you take some of these home for dinner for George and yourself?), but Will’s mind is on a parallel track - _why?_ This killer was so assiduous about keeping his victims alive. There’s a certain beauty to the garden he’s cultivated, that much is undeniable. And he’s not lazy. Suddenly Will wants to be alone in this landscape - wants so badly to understand what is going on in someone’s head when they create a scene like this.

 _Most people can barely handle what trouble life throws at them, and yet others go out looking for more. This intensity of violence demands time, and effort. It’s dangerous, and there’s no reward for it._

_You cannot show anyone your life’s work, when it looks like this. Just a plot of land in the middle of the wilderness that one person decided to nurture with corpses._

Will closes his eyes, and conjures up an exact replica of the crime scene, a custom-made virtual reality render of each tree, flower, and body. His reconstructions begin as conscious cognitive processes, Will at the centre, his mind the axis on which reality turns. Then he has to let it spin away from him, and watch from a distance as he feels his hand grip a weapon and begin to destroy things. It’s peaceful, letting his mind do this. He cannot control what happens next, because it has happened before. 

Each murder is a simple Greek tragedy, each victim a victim for ever, and each murderer blank-eyed in their inability to resist their nature. It’s almost pleasant.

.

_Baltimore, Maryland_

Hannibal Lecter’s office reminds Will of something he can’t quite put his finger on. There must be some tiny and unnoticed difference in the way Hannibal does things, that creates this atmosphere. The room feels cosier than any psychologist’s office has the right to be - not claustrophobic, but not cold either; almost like home. It _is_ Hannibal’s home, of course. 

Dr Lecter keeps his art here, Will notices - drawings, mostly buildings, executed with the careful classicism of someone who learnt how to draw when they were very young, and still listened carefully to their tutors.

“Our lives can be very lonely, Will, don’t you think?”

Will glances back at Hannibal, then at his own hands. 

“... Those people we encounter are mostly visions, silhouettes that flit on-screen for a few seconds, before vanishing again forever. This killer wants to keep people alive for as long as possible before their deaths. Can’t we all understand him, and what drives him?”

“He’s lonely, yes. But it looks as though he’s more concerned that the fungus has someone to talk to than himself.” 

Hannibal smiled, very slightly. “Have you ever had a problem with your identity, Will? Ever felt detached from yourself?”

Will didn’t answer, and said instead: “I think that this man feels detached from _others_ , not from himself. I think he is very attached to his identity, although not in a way that you or I would understand.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t need someone to show him how much better life can be with another person, but rather how horrifying life can be in nature.”

Will laughed. 

“Perhaps, Dr Lecter.”

.

Hannibal could try his own hand at reconstructions, when he needed to. 

His memory was not quite eidetic, but he had tutored his mind until he could remember nearly anything he wanted to - little details of those he met that he found interesting. The way a man turned his collar. The way people turned their shoulders to avoid bumping each other in the street. The curve of a woman’s neck as she looked up to the sky, wondering whether it was going to rain or not. These were all interesting, in their own way. Will Graham, however, was _very_ interesting. 

Will Graham held his body with a cruel tension, as though he wished to never be seen or touched; like he wanted to keep the world at an arm’s length until he allowed it to approach. He had a strong grip on his heart and mind - treated them like servants, almost - and yet he betrayed so much. He was angry, but there was so little violence in his anger - he flinched when Dr Lecter mentioned Garret Jacob Hobbs, flinched as though he had been struck across the face.

And yet he clearly did not hate force in any pacifist sense. It was just that he needed, on some desperately primal level, to distance himself from it. 

_Nothing to do with me, he seemed to say. I’m an observer, not a participant. The man who fired ten shots into another man’s body, and who felt it just? That was another person._

When someone kills, they are not themselves, they are outside themselves - any fairy-tale will tell you that much. How could anyone imagine themselves able to kill another, made of the same flesh and firmament as themselves? 

_Will Graham doesn’t know_ , thought Hannibal, _but he wants to find out_.

Will Graham was curious; Hannibal was curious, too. That’s what made him look so steadily at Will, to listen so attentively to what he allowed himself to say.

He was well-spoken, Graham, when he cared to be - that was one of the first things Hannibal had noticed about him. His mind wrapped itself around what Hannibal said to him and his next words ran far ahead once again. To an outside observer, their conversations quickly became difficult to follow, like two people playing chess, slipping through four moves at one time, hardly glancing at the board. 

Will Graham was stimulating company, but it was something else that held Hannibal’s real attention: the way Will grimaced when he wanted to laugh; the way his eyes betrayed so much, even when he refused to look at you; the way he held his hands, their neat movements suggesting competence. 

Hannibal found himself looking forward to opening the door at the end of his day, knowing Will would be there. The hour between 7:30 and 8:30 vanished too quickly, but Will, he noticed, was strict about time-keeping, and seemed to have a horror of overstaying his welcome.

He excused himself so punctually it was almost unseemly. Slightly impolite, even.

When he left - always using the patient’s door, despite Hannibal’s insistence that they were only having conversations - it was never difficult to know what to write in his notes. 

_Will Graham is observant, perhaps as much or more so when it comes to others as when it comes to himself. His cutting perception, when he does turn it on himself, is nearly always uncharitable, but never self-pitying. He remains unconvinced of therapy’s efficacy._

_Will Graham is an insightful man, and sees the perpetrators of the murders he studies with admirable and even enviable clarity._

Once, as a modest joke with himself, he wrote: _Will Graham is a pleasure to have in class._

.

_Baltimore, Maryland. After the apprehension of Eldon Stammets._

“He wanted to bury Abigail,” said Hannibal. Will hadn’t told him as much, but it wasn’t a question.

“He wanted to kill her for my sake. It would hurt me, but he felt it would be reassuring, somehow. Like I could understand him”

“There are means of communication other than violence,” commented Hannibal. He did not seem to be accusing Will of anything.

Will smiled ruefully.

“I wanted to kill him. In that moment, I wanted to,” he paused.

“More than I wanted him dead, I wanted to kill him.”

“This is understandable, Will. It’s a function of your compassion for Abigail. You feel protective of her.”

“I would have done the same to Eldon as I did to her father. It would not have helped Abigail in any way.”

Will didn’t mention that it would have felt righteous to do so, for a split second. His first shot, however, had been imperfect. The bullet had caught Stammets on the arm. It was so inelegant that he couldn’t bear to shoot again. The _tableau vivant_ of the moment was already smeared, after that. 

“Perhaps it is better that he is in custody,” said Hannibal, “if only because he wouldn’t like the forensics lab or the morgue.”

Will started. He had thought the same. Eldon ought to be killed outside, at the very least. But the thought sounded grim and cynical in Dr Lecter’s mouth. He expected more of Lecter than he did of himself, somehow. 

Perhaps Hannibal had a taste for the darker things in life, as well as a ‘knack for the monsters’ ... 

That’s the first thing that Hannibal had told Will Graham about himself: he had a ‘knack for the monsters’ – it had hardly been a flattering phrase to Will. Dr Lecter specialised in cases of severe trauma and unstable identity; Will felt this made his decision to spend time with him unnerving – like he was open to being accused of some hidden freakishness.

And yet Hannibal always put him at ease. 

He was holding up magnificently, so far, against the onslaught of bleak blood-soaked complaints that Will had come with to his door. His stoicism in the face of Will’s imagination was perhaps his greatest virtue. 

Against his best principles, Will found himself slowly becoming grateful, for Dr Lecter and his ‘conversations.’ With Dr Lecter, he found himself feeling content, and more at home in the world.

.

Hannibal didn’t make him talk about the Hobbs girl. But her still-lifeless body was in the room with them. Will frequently came to his appointment directly from the hospital, where he could do little but pace around at the foot of the hospital bed and growl at the nurses. 

If she died, it wouldn’t be his fault – technically. But it felt as though he had already killed her; even if she made a full recovery, she would remain dead in Will’s mind. He knew it already. Anyone who had come that close to death, not only bodily death but a sort of annihilation of identity, would never be able to live. He dreaded the idea of listening to everyone talking about her rehabilitation. Why wouldn’t they let her die in peace? 

What had Hobbs’ daughter had in the world? A cruel father and a mother that seemed more absent in her presence than if she had simply risen from her labour-bed and walked out of the house. And now she didn’t have either of them.

Will had thought he’d clawed his way back from an empty, miserable childhood. His mother had died when he was two, and he didn’t even have anything to feel about it. As he told Dr Lecter, he rarely felt like he had missed anything because of his mother’s death - it simply didn’t feel real.

On the rare occasions that he mentions the Hobbs girl to Dr Lecter, he sees he smile slightly, as though thinking about something of his own. Dr Lecter always, always, calls her Abigail. Will pointedly doesn’t.

He hadn’t told Dr Lecter that once in a blue moon, he would see a mother with her child - across the street, on television, over his mug of coffee at a diner - and something deep within him would wrench. Even seeing them sit beside one another made him jealous to the point of feeling ill - a white-hot jealousy, a painful one. He would try not to watch as the lady took her kid’s hand, or, worst of all, stroked their hair, but the knowledge that it was happening nearby struck an ache deep into his chest, even as he averted his eyes, or feigned a yawn to cover his face so that no passing stranger could see him tear up. 

Standing in that hospital room, watching the Hobbs girl, he had been struck by the thought that she was completely empty, completely separated from the world; a person utterly discontinuous with the world that surrounded her. No siblings, no mother, no father. Nobody to leave little gifts on her bedside table. Dressed in anonymous hospital clothes, not even her body belonged to her: it lay quietly and passively as doctors and nurses and machines gathered around her, monitored her, and controlled her.

He felt equally empty, and knew he looked it. He had seen the unsettled glance that Alana had given him when she saw how blank his face was as he stood over Abigail’s body. Of course, Alana tactfully avoided how sinister the whole scene looked, and just told him to get some sleep.

He went home, to Wolf Trap, Virginia, his perfect haven of a house. Wolf Trap – a steady and reassuring name. It suited Will – a strict neat house in frigid landscape.

He would never have invited Hannibal there if he hadn’t been secure in two facts – that Hannibal was trustworthy, and that, above all, he wouldn’t make light of his fierce possessive dependence on this place.

And he _had_ invited Dr Lecter, of course – eventually. 

Hannibal had been quite charmed – the fact that the invitation was slow in coming simply underlined its sincerity. 

Perhaps ‘invitation’ was a generous word.

“I owe you a dinner,” said Will, at the end of their next session. “Do you like trout?”

“Of course, I’d be happy to visit you, Will. Will I bring a bottle of wine?”

“You should bring whatever you like best, Doctor,” said Will.

Hannibal smiled very slightly, thinking of his wine cellar, and the room beside his wine cellar. He nodded his acquiescence. 

Perhaps they were becoming friendly after all.

.

_Wolf Trap, Virginia_

“Jack and Alana almost gave me the impression that you couldn’t fend for yourself, you know. I’m very glad to know that they were mistaken.”

“That’s not subtle of you, Hannibal,” said Will. He paused, unhappy with his phrasing. He hadn’t meant to sound quite so accusatory. He still felt ill, actually, slightly hot and clumsy – it was annoying him, and it made him speak more shortly even than usual.

“I don’t feel well, you know that,” - he took a sip of the Chardonnay - “and a complimentary lie is still a lie.”

“Will, you are stronger than you admit to me, or to anyone.” Hannibal’s mind was mostly still tugging at the fact that Will had finally, finally, used his first name.

“Strength is not a virtue.” 

“It’s lonely,” Hannibal began.

“No,” interrupted Will, “No. Don’t go there. This is not a therapy session.”

“All life can be-”

“No.”

“As you wish.”

And if it had been anyone else, Will would have had no problem in letting the rest of the meal go by in silence. But Hannibal was easy to talk to, and his easy ‘as you wish’ had charmed him a little. 

The conversation pulled itself to its feet again, and Will found himself telling Hannibal about his fishing.

“Folk around here are always complaining that the fish are scare, or that they don’t bite in the winter.” 

Will paused as he often did before he confided something.

“They’re only passing the time out on the water – they’re not going home hungry if they don’t catch anything.”

Why was he telling a minor European aristocrat about his hungry childhood, even obliquely, was one question; why he so clearly understood him was a bigger one. It almost scared him. 

Will sometimes wanted to ask Hannibal some of the same questions as he put to him in ‘therapy’: _Tell me about your mother? And your father? Did you have siblings? And where exactly did you grow up? And why–_

He stopped that train of thought. Even self-indulgence had its limits.

“There’s always enough fishing for a good fisherman, is what my dad used to say,” he said abruptly, aware as he said it that he meant to say something else entirely. 

He snatched up his fork again.

 _Everything can be tolerated_ , that’s what he meant to say. _The world is good enough for me. I’m content with poor fishing, I’ve made a little game of it and it keeps me amused._

Will thought that Hannibal, for once, seemed to miss what he was implying. 

_I wouldn’t ask him to tell me what he doesn’t want to_ , thought Hannibal. _I have my own speechless memories_.

“If all of the fish are this delicious, then even a handful would be enough,” he said.

Will was beginning to realise that Hannibal’s manners were as much a suit of armour as his own lack of them was. He tucked the thought away for later use.

They lapsed into silence, finishing their food. Will beckoned Winston over and gave him some scraps, warning him not to tell the others. Hannibal smiled at it, a smile with a promise to keep Winston’s secret too, but Will wasn’t looking, and he didn’t see it.

“Will,” said Hannibal, after a few minutes. He said it like it was a full sentence.

“Mhm,” said Will, finishing his second glass of wine rather quickly.

Hannibal reached over and, gently, placed his hand on Will’s.

“I don’t want to save you.”

 _Oh, this shit again. He’s worse than Alana_.

“But if I were welcome to be-”

“Hannibal,” said Will, grimacing - but not removing his hand.

Why wouldn’t he kiss him, if that’s what he wanted to do? He was an assertive man in all other aspects of his life. Will pushed down the automatic, uncharitable, infuriating thought – _he thinks you’re too delicate_. He ought to give Hannibal more credit than that.

There must be another reason for his hesitation.

Was he worried that Will would go too far? That he was incapable of the normal happy relationship that Hannibal would want? He wasn’t shy, so he must simply _not like him enough to push him_.

But the horror and messiness of his work, the increasing disorder of his mind – Will should have been asking himself how could he inflict that on Hannibal and his gentle, refined life. Of course, his matter-of-fact sketches of graphic crime scenes hadn’t seemed to faze him in the slightest. And surely Hannibal wouldn’t be scandalised by Will if he wanted-

But here he was agonising over violence and hunger and sex, when he hadn’t even touched Hannibal of his own volition yet. 

Hannibal didn’t move his hand, didn’t oblige Will to meet his eyes. There was very little space between them, and yet Will didn’t feel crowded in the slightest.

Hannibal could feel a slight blush creep onto his cheeks. He once been told that his blush was of the same colour as over-bloomed roses, like those dark Flemish painting where everything seemed over-ripe and on the precipice of rot – but he had been very young then. He wished he knew what Will thought – he wished he knew whether Will had noticed how warm his hand was.

 _He looks so unhappy_ , thought Hannibal, _and so beautiful. I should draw him as he is in this moment_.

Will roughly pushed his tangled curls from his forehead. _Sometimes we have to do something in order to avoid talking about it_ , he thought.

He took Hannibal’s hand properly. He leaned into the kiss without bothering to shut his eyes, watching with surprise and approval as Hannibal echoed him, a mirror image but for his closed eyes.

Will kissed Hannibal, hand to his head, leaning over him. When Hannibal kissed back, it was always an echo. He was being cautious, not careful – it didn’t feel like an insult.

“Living room,” said Will eventually, his voice almost imperceptibly ragged.

Hannibal nodded.

They managed to stand up. Will freed his hand from Hannibal’s and pulled him closer; led him from the table.

Will fell to the bed and let Hannibal fall with him – he put his mouth to his neck and kissed him there, allowed himself a gentle bite, pulled Hannibal closer, threw his arm around his waist and trapped him there, with him, on top of him. Will kissed him very slowly, and kissed him again, and–

Nothing.

He had the lurching feeling of doing something deeply unwise, as though he had put his hand over a flame. He turned his head away from Hannibal and made the first sound he’d made in several long minutes – it most resembled a _no_.

Hannibal propped himself up on his elbows, looking at Will calmly, indulgently.

Will ignored him, and closed his eyes. His face was so blank that he might have been unconscious.

After a long silence, Hannibal let himself down, and lay on his back beside Will.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Will.”

What a strange thing to say. Once again, any decency made Will feel like he was being condescended to. _He thinks he needs to be careful with me_ , he thought. _Fuck him. He truly doesn’t want me if the slightest noise of reluctance makes him give up._

Hannibal thought of Abigail in her over-warm hospital room, and frowned thoughtfully.

He caught Will’s hand again.

“Hannibal.”

The first name was beginning to sound natural in his mouth.

“I’ve done so much to avoid … this.”

“This?” asked Hannibal, voice soft.

“The uncertainty.”

Will turned and looked into Hannibal’s eyes.

“And you want me to take it away?”

Will made a face, still conflicted.

“I feel like you’re going to eat me up and spit me out,” he said flatly after another long pause. There was no accusation in his voice.

“Will,” said Hannibal, sitting up, with a peculiar half-smile, in that low tone, the one that felt like a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“… I would _never_ spit you out.”

He put an untimid hand to Will’s hair and brushed through the curls, as Will stared at him, taking in the conspicuously absent element of his promise.

Will reached up and touched Hannibal’s cheek and kissed him again, ever more softly. Felt the slightest of smiles against his lips – once again unnerving.

Will put his hands to Hannibal’s waist and pulled him closer. Kissed him harder and put hands between his legs until _finally_ the immaculate composure fractured, just a little, and Hannibal gave a quiet moan. 

Will laughed in triumph, at this one small victory that had been afforded to him, and Hannibal put a hand to his throat, and kissed Will.

Clothes came off, quickly. Hannibal folded his dress shirt lightly and neatly over the bedside locker, making Will whinge with impatience. That image, of Hannibal pausing to smooth out his white shirt, bathed in the pale blue half-light from the window, was to come back to Will later, and torment him.

But right then, he simply reached out to Hannibal with naïve dependence on Hannibal’s reciprocation of his touch. And Hannibal came back to him, and took him in his arms, and covered him in kisses. 

Will sighed on light breath and moaned. He ran his hands over Hannibal, taking in his strength, trying to provoke him into using it.

Hannibal slipped a hand through Will’s hair and held him firmly, and pinned his arm to the bed with the other. He’d happily admit to himself that, on some level, this was no longer a game to him. Will was beautiful. He wanted him so much, looked up at him so steadily.

“Hannibal,” said Will fervently. 

“Yes, my darling?” Hannibal’s own voice was low and curiously restrained.

“Kindly hurry the damn hell up.”

Hannibal didn’t reply, except to kiss Will again, bite at his neck, with more hunger this time. Will strangled the cry in his throat. Hannibal simply continued kissing, tracing slowly down Will’s body. 

He kissed the scar on his shoulder from an old bullet-wound, harder than was strictly necessary.

“If only you had more, so I could kiss those too,” he said, at Will’s protest.

Will freed his hand and put it between Hannibal’s legs, and said:

“More scars? Just fuck me. C’mon, Hannibal, I want you.”

The word he wasn’t saying hung between them for a moment – _need_ ; he _needed_ him – and then Hannibal began to do as he had been asked to.

.

Everything Hannibal did to Will was skilful, careful, but Will couldn’t feel it properly. Something hurt at the core of him. Something else _didn’t_ hurt, and felt absent – that was almost worse. 

“Doesn’t feel real,” he said.

Hannibal paused, hands and mouth gentle, but present.

“Are you dissociating, Will?”

“No! That’s not what I meant.”

“So-” there was a question in his voice again. 

“ _Yes_ ,” said Will, impatiently, like it was a curse; he was annoyed again, as much at Hannibal as at himself. He roughly pushed Hannibal’s head down again, ignoring his half-hearted protest, and groaned at feeling his own action played through another’s body. 

He bit down his nausea and tried to focus on what Hannibal was doing. He felt half-dead; he couldn’t stop thinking of Abigail, comatose and cut off from the world.

It felt _wrong_. His pulse was racing, he could feel how aroused Hannibal was as well, but he was miserable. 

Did Abigail’s heart manage to beat once, weakly, for ever three fevered beats of his heart? Was she dying right now, as Hannibal had him in his mouth? How could he live with himself if she died and he wasn’t there?

 _Mother of God, please, please, think about something, anything, else,_ Will begged himself.

“Hannibal,” he said. “Stop, come here, I want you to hurt me.”

He looked up at Will, mouth slightly open and lips glistening. "I can do that," he said, voice bruised but unexpectedly calm. 

Hannibal licked his lips and swallowed daintily. He kissed Will, put his hands on his throat, and held him – not pushing down, but not letting him move. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” said Hannibal. “I prefer you when I can see you.”

Will smiled wanly.

Hannibal strengthened his grip on Will’s throat, and kissed him again, kissed him breathless. When he was sure Will was happy and light-headed, Hannibal chose his moment, and bit down on Will’s bottom lip, hard and insistent.

Will screamed, half-voiceless, his whole body convulsed. Hannibal’s grip didn’t abate. 

_He loves me now_ , thought Hannibal. _In this moment, he loves him so much he can’t think of anything else_. The idea made him lick his teeth, and look at Will with rekindled hunger.

Will said something indistinct, his two urgent syllables caught in his flesh under Hannibal’s hand. _Fuck me_ , he tried to force out, nothing more than a groan escaping his mouth - it was an order as much as a request.

“Of course I will, my darling. And you may cry out as much as you wish.”

So saying, he dragged his hands away from Will’s throat.

Will nodded weakly. He _wanted_ to cry. It might prove cathartic. 

_Will looks so beautiful right now,_ Hannibal thought. Flushed and emotional and almost vulnerable, if it wasn’t for his acid determination to get what he wanted. _I hardly know what I want to do to him. He’d make a beautiful corpse, but the fierce redness that shows so high on his cheeks has its own charm, which would disappear in death._ He was more interesting in conversation while alive, too. One had to consider that as well.

Will tried to get back his breath, chest labouring. The air was whistling slightly in his throat. His top drawer was nearly empty, no clutter at all, and Hannibal found what he wanted quickly.

Hannibal wordlessly helped Will turn over.

Pretty soon Will had everything he wanted for the night - someone who was _through_ him, as well as with him and in him. Hannibal with one hand on his shoulder, holding so tightly it was bruising, and another arm wrapped around his waist.

His tears – from pressure? Relief? – came quickly; he could feel their dampness where his face rested on the linen. Hannibal moved again and Will sobbed, so loud he shocked even himself.

“It’s okay,” said Hannibal, in a savage undertone.

Will gasped a blasphemy.

 _How fun would it be to remind him of Abigail in this moment?_ thought Hannibal.

Will was out of his head with pleasure, desperate to think of _life_ , not death. The power to ruin Will’s little happiness shimmered in Hannibal’s heart, but it was almost more amusing to let him enjoy himself, knowing that every second his contentment grew more fragile.

Hannibal kissed Will's neck, unbearably softly. He put a propetorial hand to Will's stomach, which made Will moan _I want, I want your_ , never finishing his sentence - Hannibal made a low noise in the back of his throat, and came, and sunk his teeth into Will's shoulder.

.

_Wolf Trap, Virginia_

The morning dawned clean and cold, frost glowing on every blade of grass, and the sun, still pale and low in the sky, casting lack-lustre light across the fields. Mist hovered by the treeline, and everything was hushed. Hannibal woke first, used to more warmth than this in the morning. The silence was welcome after the previous evening. Will was still in a deep sleep, as content as Hannibal had ever seen him; a slight dew on his brow, and an unusual fervour to his blush. Hannibal put the back of his hand to Will's forehead and noted how warm he was. Reluctant to wake him, Hannibal got up and walked with silent feet to the window. The house had an immaculate neatness, no matter where he looked. Wooden boxes on the windowsill, waiting for spring; panes of glass that looked as though they had been scrubbed clean only a couple of days before; diligently arranged bookshelves. Hannibal looked back at Will, and saw that his arm had strayed towards where he had been lying a few moments before. He tilted his head, selfishly pleased: Will was looking for him in his sleep. As quietly as possible, he let the dogs outside. Hannibal made coffee, and set the cup on Will's bedside table.

They were having breakfast in a mostly companionable silence, when Will’s phone rang. It vibrated only twice before he answered.

“Jack.” Will’s voice was flat, a world away from the soft tones he had used last night; he was studiously unemotional now, like an adopted monotone was as good as a suit of armour.

Hannibal could hear Jack Crawford on the other end.

“Abigail Hobbs woke up, we want you at the hospital as soon as possible.”

Will sounded as much in dread as in relief, as he answered brusquely in the affirmative and hung up.

“Will, if Jack calls me, what would you like me to say?”

“What?”

“Where am I, if Jack asks?”

“I don’t care Hannibal, but we’re not talking about this.”

It was clear that he meant _we’re not telling the rest of the world about last night._

Hannibal made no attempt to conceal his offence. Will could see what wouldn’t have been obvious to someone else — he had made Hannibal angry. The thought pleased him. Anger implied Hannibal cared about him.

“Abigail had an unusual conception, it must be admitted,” Hannibal said, evenly, after taking a moment to collect his manners.

Will looked at him in horror, hand straying to his stomach, feeling Hannibal’s phantom hand over his, where it had lingered last night. He felt _used_.

“We need to go to the hospital,” he said eventually. Hannibal just smiled, very slightly. _Perhaps we could be good parents_ , thought Hannibal. _In another world._

.

Abigail was sitting up, sipping fresh apple juice that Alana had brought, and gingerly teasing her fingers through her hair, trying not to upset her nauseous headache. Nurses came and went, joking kindly with her about having been reborn. She hadn’t had a religious upbringing, and didn’t understand some of their jokes, but she smiled politely at them all the same; it seemed the wise thing to do. It was a relief when Alana visited with another handful of books. She still couldn’t talk much without pain, and crying sent lightning-sharp pain down her still-cloven throat. She felt very tired, for someone just starting her life over from the beginning.

She watched the cool winter light filtering into her room and wondered if she would be able to cry again soon.

**Author's Note:**

> fun fun ... kudos and comments are deeply appreciated! thank you for reading. my username is the same on tumblr <3


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